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CRIMSON SNOW II: RED RAIN by HARLEQUINADE

>>INSERT DISC<<

>PLAY FEATURE
>COMMENTARY WITH FRANKLIN GOLDSTICK JR.: ON/OFF
>SCENE SELECTION
>SPECIAL FEATURES
>TRAILER REEL


A WITCHFINDER PRODUCTION: CRIMSON SNOW 2: RED RAIN JEFF GOLDBLUM - RON PERLMAN - LARRY FESSENDEN - WRITTEN BY ALI MALONEY - MUSIC BY KROWNE - DIRECTED BY FRANKLIN GOLDSTICK JR. - SOUNDTRACK AVAILABLE ON BLACK LANTERN MUSIC

EXT: GOTHAM CITY STREETS, NIGHT.

At the first sign of trouble, the cops would always come sniffing round the Witch's Cunt but they would get nothing from the drunken pulsing throng of pushers, ravers, hipster hacks, bio-merchants, Mohawk marauders, the neo-suave, chemical cocktail casualties, worshipers of the conquering worm and rat, circuit bent androids, beat heads, gastro-techies; The Trooper, with a face like a broken chair, The Monolith: a scrawny scantily costumed needlefreak with delusions of super-villainy and the conjoined twin Betty Page vintage pin-up barmaid(s) – you couldn’t say you’d done her until you’d done them both. Nope, the cops wouldn’t get a whiff.

Unless, I was there. I’d tell them a tale, I’d tell them I saw it all.

It was raining red when we dug up his grave under the eyes of the city council, army doctors and a quivering priest. His corpse had not decayed and indeed looked healthy and plump with rosy cheeks, his fingernails and hair grown long. They staked him with whitethorn wood and branded him all over with a silver cross and decapitated him and burned the bodies.

We sliced the city in their cruiser. The radio pumping outerlimit hip-hop, sousaphone trance, artcore, junk metal, tentacle doo-wop, astronautical electrickery, subterranean rumblings, meat cleaver crunk, mushroom cloud, lava jazz, human bone xylophone voodoo dance, the poetry paradox, rust bump, barnacle shanties, wasabi dub, the hypnotic loop, diminsished fifth, industrial clatter, radio dial decay, lycanthro-pop, Burroughs continuums, demon lounge, skin walk, tripedal 3-step, synaesthesia and drum 'n' invokkation and the cops asked if I wanted to spike some crimson snow with them.

We knew we were getting close as the walls became plastered and covered with appeals for information about missing or kidnapped dogs.

It had been reported that a wild man, over seven foot tall and covered in thick grey fur, had been seen foraging in the long alleyway that backed onto a parade of cheap restaurants. Camouflaged and armed with hunting knifes and a tracker, they sat down to fried seaweed, prawns and noodles.
The distress call was traced to a run down arctic research shack, inside they found no trace of habitation and the last log entry was dated almost a hundred years previously.

Pseudo-memories, phantasmagoria;
Mentally projecting down through the ages,
Disembodied data merchant
Mirroring death in the abyss of sleep...
...it was in London, at the turn of the century
when once again, the world hadn’t ended.

The streets strewn with wreckage, cars upturned and entangled in roots and plants run rampant, the glass of shopping malls collapsed under the moss that sought to claim the cities back to earth. All nurtured by the constant shower of red rain, swirling in eddies towards the black obelisk that stood as the new centre of existence, life giver and provider.

The expedition faced it, prepared to never go back again.
More mourners turned up to the funeral than J could have ever expected – most having traveled great distances to pay their respects and some having come suddenly without any provisions for the long journey. During the service, during J’s grand eulogy, there came a commotion from the back of the room: screams and wails and pushes and fights and confusion. The crowd parted and the very child for whom they had gathered walked through them, caked in mud and his fingers scraped back to bloody stubs.

Of course, the research had been already published into the mating habits and mechanics of demons when unable to produce semen themselves: They took the form of a woman so enticing to man who spill themselves inside their projected fantasy, then by changing shape so member’d as to impregnate a human woman with that harboured and perverted seed.

It was late, they’d not found what they came for and all the trails ran cold.

Even though we’d been alone we’d still lost many men.
But the tracker picked up, alert and intent, hushed us to follow behind him along the scent he’d sensed. From ahead there came a cry:

I smell sulphur, I smell sulphur, I smell sulphur...
I smell sulphur, I smell sulphur, I smell sulphur...

STAR-WIPE TO BLACK.





>>PLAY AGAIN: YES/NO.<<


CRIMSON SNOW II: RED RAIN is the sequel to THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE CRIMSON SNOW


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